


constant as a northern star

by Hymn



Series: i found my star, lost the moon (that star is you) [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, Frottage, Future Fic, Happy Derek, Lots of Sex, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, New Relationship, Oh jesus, Rimming, Shower Sex, THE HAPPIEST DEREK, adorable nerds, bottom!Derek, derek and stiles discovering a love of derek bottoming and stiles making him feel good, did you hear me?, excuse for porn, healthy relationship, lots of porn, not season three compliant, oh my god if i missed a warning please let me know!, talking it out and safe boundaries sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:38:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hymn/pseuds/Hymn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek stole a chicken wing from Stiles’ pile, said “<i>You’re</i> special," in a way that was probably meant to be a subtle jab at Stiles’ sanity but really just came out sounding like Derek was having emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	constant as a northern star

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the idea of how Stiles and Derek figured out where their sexual preferences together lie, ever since finishing the other piece in this series, we're looking at stars, and I finally got around to writing it. I wrote a lot, because it is almost all porn mixed in with squishy feels, and I didn't think the porn was hot enough in the first half so I just kept going, thinking "quantity over quality!" Fortunately, I think the quality picks up in the second half, so maybe you'll get both. The origin of this piece was written before season three started airing, and in case you haven't seen it all yet I won't mention what the differences are, but just know that I willfully ignore its existence for the sake of this fic, and that the only influence season three has possibly had on this is that I, desperately, wanted to make these boys happy. Again, and again, and _again_.
> 
> You don't need to have read [we're looking at stars](http://archiveofourown.org/works/537680) to enjoy (or not) this fic as it can be considered a prequel or standalone, but you should keep in mind that it was written based on the deep desire that Derek and Stiles have spent a few years working out their issues as friends, and as individuals, before getting together in Stiles' first year of college, and Derek can almost form articulate sentences about feelings. _Almost_.

Stiles took Derek out on a date before they ever had sex: “Just let me have my fantasy, dude. We are finally in an actual relationship together and there will be plenty of sexy times later, I assure you, just _let me buy you curly fries first_ , damn it.” With a look of long-suffering to match Stiles’ exasperation, Derek ate the curly fries and even shared a milk shake with Stiles. “I should have worn a poodle skirt,” Stiles said idly around the cherry stem in his mouth. “What with you in the leather and the diner and the milk shake, it is very 1950s and adorable.” 

“Adorable?” Derek asked scathingly.

Stiles stuck out his tongue with a neatly tied cherry stem on the tip of it, and Derek blushed, looking faintly unsettled and a little bit hunted and wide-eyed. He shifted awkwardly in the booth, and the red-glitter cushion squeaked beneath his skinny-jean clad ass. 

“Yes,” Stiles said, with satisfaction. “Adorable.”

*

“The milk shake may have not been the best idea,” Stiles said nervously, later that night. He was still in all his shirts but he’d lost his pants around his ankles, and his boxers with them. It felt possibly even more embarrassing being half-naked in front of Derek freaking Hale because the many shirts he was wearing were long enough to keep him from being exposed. It was just his thighs, the scars on his knees, his ankles and calves on display. Derek sat on the bed, shrugging out of his leather jacket, not sure where to look. His eyes kept coming back to Stiles, though, flitting over him restlessly.

Stiles watched him, needing to watch him, nervous but growing more confident the longer he watched Derek, Derek unable to look away, who wanted to be polite but wanted to look more, Derek who was blushing and Derek whose hard-on pressed against the zipper of his skinny jeans. 

“We don’t have to,” Derek said, in a way that was intimate and sweet despite the rough texture of his words, because it was Derek trying to make certain Stiles felt safe. Stiles thought: He needs me to feel safe to feel safe himself. Argent issues, but issues were things they could work through. Because this was Stiles and Derek, and it had taken years for them to trust each other, to keep wanting to trust each other, to get over the violence between them at the start of their acquaintance. It was what they did, Derek holding on and gritting his teeth, Stiles pushing and fighting and finding the right answers. 

Stiles stepped out of his pants, slipped out of his shirts, let himself be naked and fearless with his heart hammering and stepped right up in between Derek’s legs, peeled his shirt from the werewolf, saw his chest heave and his flesh pimple with sensation, pushed Derek back and laid down next to him, and kissed his chin light, sweet: “I want to, if you do. Just don’t squish my milk shake belly too hard.”

Derek rolled carefully on top of him, lifted up in a disgustingly perfect sit up and said, “Then take off my pants, Stiles.”

*

It was good sex. Really, very good, because it was between Derek and Stiles, the two of them, and they both came, and then they cuddled, and there were a few things that they learned, and found that they needed to unlearn. It was good.

It was better than what Stiles expected, because Stiles didn’t have the experience to really know what to expect, and getting fucked was pretty nice, even if it would take some getting used to the ache that stayed behind. The best part was when Derek was close to coming, and he tucked his head into Stiles’ neck, hid his eyes there, panting blindly, and Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek and held onto him while he shuddered.

So, yeah, it was pretty good and they were pretty happy, because it really meant something to them, sharing body heat and passing pleasure back and forth, and trusting each other enough to be vulnerable. There were hand-jobs and blow-jobs, and a few masturbation performances for a very willing audience, and several hickeys Derek was reluctant to let heal and Stiles made only half-hearted efforts to hide. There was a lot of sex that first week because even on top of Stiles having the libido of a college freshman who had just lost his virginity, Derek had crazy werewolf stamina. Really awesome and somewhat terrifying crazy werewolf sex stamina, _Jesus_.

Then came the third date, a week later. Stiles classified their dates as managing to eat something and hang out just the two of them before sex. If sex happened before food, it didn’t count as a date. They had a lot more non-dates than they had dates, but it just made the dates more special, Stiles explained. Derek stole a chicken wing from Stiles’ pile, said “ _You’re_ special," in a way that was probably meant to be a subtle jab at Stiles’ sanity but really just came out sounding like Derek was having emotions, and Derek focused very intensely on taking apart his chicken wing with his teeth. He kept his thigh pressed sweetly up against Stiles’ as the movie played on screen across from them, though, and Stiles felt a little like crying, and a lot like spending the rest of the night in bed making Derek feel worshiped and loved and devastated.

Eventually the chicken wings were reduced to nothing but bones and cartilage, and all that remained of the onion rings and french fries were a few smears of ketchup on the styrofoam containers. The movie played the end credits, and Stiles sat back against the couch, feeling full and content, and happy to let Derek do clean up since Stiles had paid for dinner this time around. Derek pushed the coffee table forward in a brief squeak of wood against wooden floor boards, stood up, bent over to gather the trash, and then- and _then_.

Derek had to shift to reach the napkins Stiles had crumpled up on the far corner of his side of the coffee table, shifted without thinking, just casually picking up their mess, except that Stiles suddenly had Derek’s ass bent in front of him, and Stiles was no longer feeling lazy and content, and all he wanted was to put his hands on that ass. Which he’d done before, during sex, in quiet moments, or just to be silly, but this time, when he put his hands on the denim of Derek’s jeans, pressed his palms and curled his fingers across each pocket like he was framing the perfect picture, and let his thumbs rest across to touch, tip to tip at the seam, there was intent, hormone ridden instinct, and the gratifying sound of Derek dropping the brown paper bag full of trash on the floor and grabbing the coffee table edge with his hands in surprise.

“Stiles,” Derek said, exasperated and amused for a moment, turning his head to peer back past his shoulder. Something must have shown in Stiles’ face, something different, maybe, or maybe it was the same look, the look he gave Derek during sex all the time, hungry and hot and stupid with desire, but the situation that was different: Derek braced against the coffee table, his ass on display in Stiles’ hands. Derek swallowed, Stiles saw the motion, waited for Derek to move or not move, and when Derek did not move, just trembled for a moment where he was, shocked and surprised, Stiles leaned forward and bit down against Derek’s ass, scraped his teeth over the denim, swept his thumbs up, then down, in a slow slide of pressure.

Derek gasped.

It took everything Stiles had, to lean back, to put a little distance from the moment, the intention; he loosened his hands, a feather light caress instead of a desperate grip. Cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice was a croak, but he made himself ask: “Is this okay? I mean- I know this isn’t, uhm, anything we’ve talked about. You’ve never really indicated you’d want to try, uh, try it this way, but I’d like to, if you’re okay what that? I would- yeah, I would really, really like to.”

Derek opened his mouth, closed it. He had this look on his face, the lost one where he looked so fragile and beautiful and stunning, that Stiles just wanted to sweep him in and hide his face in his chest until Derek could get his shit back together, school his face into clenched jaw and haughty eyebrows and steady eyes. Stiles said, “I’ll go slow.” Derek dropped his head down, exposing the delicate curve of his bare neck above the collar of his shirt, the broad stretch of his shoulders. 

“I’m not scared.” Derek laughed, low and genuine. “Don’t worry, if I want you to stop you’ll stop. Go ahead.”

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Stiles gasped, losing it for a moment with a rush of desire, hot and heady, at the permission. Derek tightened his grip, steadied his feet, and stayed there and Stiles’ pressed his face against that perfect ass, rubbed his cheek against the rough denim, tugged his fingers into the pockets just to make Derek move a little, to be the one doing the moving and Derek letting him. Derek made a soft noise, a little choked, and swayed in surprise, maybe arousal. Stiles’ slid a hand down the seam of Derek’s jeans, stupidly tight, black, and perfectly strained across the curve of Derek’s ass, slid his hand pressing down along Derek’s crack, and down further until he came up the other side, between Derek’s thighs to press his palm against Derek’s cock, beginning to thicken. “Yes,” Stiles praised, relieved. Derek snorted, pressed his erection against Stiles’ hand with a pleased rumble, and dropped his elbows just a little, until his back was a graceful slope that Stiles had to stand up and see. “Yes, yes, yes,” Stiles breathed.

He moved his hand from between Derek’s thighs, pressed his own erection, maddeningly hard, against Derek’s ass, moved his hand around to trap Derek again, between his hand and his dick, Derek pressing forward eagerly, backwards curiously. With his other hand Stiles pushed Derek’s shirt down, down around his arm pits, scraped his nails across the bunching muscles, twisted it tight in the shirt for a moment, trapping Derek, let it go. Derek was moaning now, and Stiles was drunk with the sound, with making Derek shiver and groan. He was fascinated by the way Derek moved, pushing forward against the steady pressure of Stiles’ hand, and, more desperately now as cautious curiosity gave way to the realization of pleasure, back, rubbing his ass against Stiles’ dick, driving him crazy. Everything was hot, Stiles’ thought he was going blind, and the sounds Derek was making, fuck, little pants and startled whines, and greedy rumbles, little snippets of porn almost lost in the soundtrack of the dvd menu screen.

Stiles leaned over him, draped his body against Derek and pressed his hand against Derek’s neck, covered the nape of it with his palm and curled his fingers against the hot skin, the soft hairs, pressed down until Derek nearly fell over, so quickly he surrendered to the touch, bending as far as he could go. Derek gasped, sharp and startled and nearly angry with it, “Fuck!” but he kept moving, so Stiles kept going, grinding and rubbing, Derek jerking and crying out, knuckles white on the table, and before they knew to expect it they were coming. Stiles came back to awareness draped over Derek’s back, who had the strength to hold him but was trembling in the aftershocks, trying to even out his shaky breathing.

“Whoa,” Stiles said, prying himself off Derek and falling back to the couch with a thump. 

Derek stood up rigid straight and snarled, “What the fuck just happened.”

“Whoa,” Stiles said again. “Okay, stop me if I’m reading too much into this, but I think that’s the loudest you’ve ever been during sex.”

Derek turned to face him then, and, sounding faintly betrayed, agreed. “Yes, it was. Fuck. That was- I don’t. Did you-? Yeah, no, I can’t talk about it.” He sat down on the coffee table, and tangled his fingers with Stiles, looking off to the side in grumpy embarrassment. 

“I loved it.” Stiles grabbed the controller and turned off the television. “I always love sex with you, like, dude, seriously, love it so much, it’s great and fantastic, but I am going to be so completely honest here and tell you that I really loved what we just did because I want you to know it’s okay if you want to try it again.” Derek made a strange sound between a gurgle and a growl, and glared at him. Stiles flailed. “Look! Don’t give me that, we’re in a relationship, deal with the feelings, Derek. Because I’m so completely and utterly not lying, you can tell, just listen to my heart beat, I love making you come. I love making you feel good and make noises and fall apart, it’s my favorite part of sex, seriously, I couldn’t really care if I’m getting fucked or doing the fucking or just _whatever_ so long as I can make you feel good. Nothing gets me off better than that.”

Derek hid his face, bright red, looking like he’d bit into a lemon, in the hand that wasn’t holding onto Stiles’. “Oh, dear God. You need to stop talking, Stiles, I’m serious. I can’t even.”

“Derek,” Stiles pleaded. “Derek, Derek, Derek let me make you feel good again. This has, like, opened up a million possibilities that I am absolutely prepared to explore and I am ready to begin the mission _right this second_ if you’ll give it a shot. I mean, another shot.” Stiles grinned, waving their linked hands together in the air dangerously. “Come-shot!”

“It is times like these,” Derek grieved, “that I wonder why I ever stopped hating you.”

Stiles made a dismissive sound. “You never hated me, don’t even. Now can we please, please go to the bedroom and try this again with less clothes and more lube? Also before the jizz dries and we have to peel our underwear off painfully?”

“Just let me throw the garbage out first.” Stiles snorted, and Derek snatched his hand away from him and got up prissily and said, “I hate flies. I can hear them buzzing from the other side of the apartment. I will _not_ have flies, Stiles.”

Derek’s eyes flashed red, thinking about flies, and Stiles thought: you dweeb, I love you.

*

Lube meant Stiles could slide his fingers inside of Derek’s ass, press past his knuckle as deep as he could get into heat and tightness, stroke him from the inside out. “Oh,” Derek said. He was laid out on his belly on the bed, a pillow beneath his hips, the long stretch of him catching yellow-orange highlights from the bedside lamp. Stiles watched his fingers disappearing into Derek, first one and then two, stretching his hole so Stiles could see. Derek cried out, bit into his fist. 

“You have a new appreciation for the length of my fingers now, don’t you?”

Derek groaned, and said, “Just find my prostate already before I kill you.”

With your teeth? Stiles thought, amused, pressing his own teeth down to the curve of Derek’s ass. He bit, marked it up, added to the other bites and light scratches he’d put there before opening the lube. Derek’s ass was marked, pink and red, debauched, spread open for Stiles. Each mark earned a sound: a bite surrendered a whine, a scrape of nail a hitch of a breath, the flat smack of Stiles palm an out and out cry. Stiles laid out, trying to keep a rhythm with his hand, rotating his wrist, thrusting into Derek’s hole until it gave it up, loosened for him, and Stiles licked around his knuckles at the rim of it, where it was tender and sensitive, and “Fucking mother fucking oh fuck,” Derek whispered, sounding desperate and broken and cracked down the center. “Please,” he said, “please, please, fuck Stiles, fucking fuck, Stiles, please.”

Stiles spread his fingers, spread them far enough that Derek keened, shredded the sheet with his claws, and then Stiles slurped his tongue around them, between them, touched his tongue against the inside of Derek and pressed against the rim with teeth and tongue until all Derek could do was make these punched out little noises and twist his hands in the tattered sheets and twitch his thighs and press his ass against Stiles asking for more, begging. 

“I want to see how much you can take,” Stiles said, voice hoarse, pleasure-drunk. “God, Derek, I want to see how long you can take this before you just fall apart.”

“Stiles,” Derek begged. 

“No, no, not yet,” Stiles muttered, “I’m not done yet, not done with you yet, just wait.”

Stiles moved back, pillowed his head on one of Derek’s thighs, watched hungry as his fingers twisted and probed, seeking, watching the desperate rotation of Derek’s hips as he fucked back onto Stiles’ hand, rubbed his leaking erection deliriously against the pillow, unable to get a decent pressure from it. Stiles’ dick was so hard he was having trouble thinking, all of his attention zeroed down into obsessive focus, capturing everything, devoting it to memory, because this, Derek falling apart because of _Stiles_ , nothing beat that, not even orgasm. 

He was tripping his fingers against Derek’s prostate now, pushing cries and wrecked, broken sounds out of Derek with each casual brush, each hard press, each lingering stroke, and maybe he should have felt a little bad, pushing Derek this far his first time being fucked, but Stiles only wanted to push harder. He bit down on Derek’s thigh, in the soft tender flesh there, the meatiest part, bit down hard enough to bruise brilliant, and Derek choked on his own breath, on pleasure and sensation, and it was like he was so overwhelmed he couldn’t make noise, couldn’t get breath to moan or growl or whimper or howl, and his entire body writhed, bucked, trembled into orgasm into over-stimulated stillness.

Slowly, Stiles pulled his fingers out of Derek, dragging them lingeringly and lewdly across the rim, smearing the lube around just a little more. He pressed a kiss against Derek’s bitten thigh, and then laid out next to him, shivering with tension, the arousal wound so tightly in his gut. Derek pressed his face against the bed, relearned how to breathe. 

Stiles asked, “Can I fuck you now?”

Derek shivered.

“Sorry, sorry,” Stiles said, voice hushed and raw. He stroked his palm over Derek’s back, across his shoulder blades and down his spine, rubbed his fingers against the small of his back and back up to pet the nape of his neck, scratch his nails through Derek’s hair. “I just. I really need to come, that was. Amazing. So, so amazing. You’re amazing. I can’t believe how amazing you are. That was something we really need to do again, but right now if I don’t come I’m going to _implode_.”

Derek rolled over, knocked the pillow away, and hooked an arm around Stiles’ neck. He pulled him into a kiss, a deep one, licking into his mouth with liquid heat, sucking on Stiles’ tongue and scraping his teeth against Stiles’ bottom lip. “Not yet,” Derek breathed, pulling away to press his forehead against Stiles. “I- Sorry. Just. Not yet.”

Guilt was beginning to creep into Derek’s voice, as if there was a world in which he should possibly feel guilty for setting up boundaries of what he felt comfortable doing. “That’s fine,” Stiles assured him, pressing kisses against his cheekbones, the side of his nose, the edge of his mouth until the tension eased from him, just a little. “That is absolutely and completely fine. We can, ah, do that if and when you’re ready for it, okay? I don’t mind, seriously, this whole night has been, like, a gift, but a strange and surprising and slightly terrifying one. Firsts all around!” Stiles grinned at him, wide and fierce. “Like I said, I’ll go slow.”

“You’re making me regret everything with the feelings, Stiles,” Derek chastised. He rubbed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, grimacing. “I’m not up for much,” he confessed, sounding a little horrified by it. Stiles, rightly so, preened with smug satisfaction.

“That’s fine.” Stiles pushed up on an elbow, further onto his knees, and swung a leg out to straddle Derek’s hips. He tilted his chin cockily and waggled his eyebrows, “There’s a trick we already know we both enjoy, and all you have to do is lay back and bask in the afterglow.” 

Derek grinned, teeth and fire-green eyes and stubble and perfection, and Stiles was going to last about five strokes, tops, because he still had the echo of Derek’s voice in his ears, breaking and hitching as he begged and pleaded, the memory of Derek’s ass clinging hot and heady against his fingers as he drew them out and fucked back in, and there was the proof of them, of Stiles and Derek and the hard won trust of their relationship staring straight at him, the fondness softening Derek’s face, the loving curl of Derek’s fingers around Stiles’ hip bone. Stiles came, with a strangled moan and something like a worn out sob, and what didn’t already land on Derek’s ridiculous wash board abs Stiles caught in his hand, and then he rubbed his jizz into Derek’s skin, while Derek stretched and rumbled like a lazy cat, pleased.

*

Stiles couldn’t come again, there was just no way his body was going to be up for another round so soon after two orgasms in quick succession, no matter how much he wanted it. Stiles wasn’t a werewolf, he didn’t have Derek’s crazy werewolf sex stamina, even with his boyfriend standing naked and wet in the shower, skin slick and hot and firm with muscle against his palms. Gorgeous, Stiles thought, heart fluttering wildly, tracing the contours of Derek in the dimly lit space of the shower. They were tucked in, curtained off from the world, everything lost in the rush of the water, the steam and warmth, and the dark plaster of Derek’s hair against his forehead, the way his eyelashes caught drops of water, the long expanse of his throat and the delicate sweep of his collar bones. 

“Fuck it,” Stiles said, greedy. He could admit that, he was a greedy son of a bitch and it didn’t matter that heat was pouring through his veins, settling deep in his belly, his dick giving a painful twitch but no more, because Derek was beautiful and his and he loved him and he wanted to make him come again.

He stepped in against Derek, skin against skin, ducked his head down and pressed a biting kiss to Derek’s throat, right across the front of it. “Ah,” Derek gasped. His fingers found Stiles’ shoulders, gripped there. Stiles wanted another sound, wanted Derek to go hoarse from all the noise he‘d make. He scraped his teeth down Derek‘s throat, bit into the meat of his shoulder, vicious. “Ha-a! Fuck, Stiles!” They hit the shower wall, Derek propelling Stiles back away from the spray of water, leaning into him and seeking his mouth, hot slides of tongue and the slow drag of Derek’s lips against his. “You’re an incorrigible little shit,” Derek breathed against Stiles’ ear, and Stiles grinned, heart thundering, reached a hand up and pulled Derek’s hair. Derek whined, arching his neck back with the pressure and tug, resisting just enough to feel it but letting Stiles have his throat again, baring it for Stiles’ teeth and tongue. 

“Hypocrite,” Stiles laughed, tugging Derek’s erection to prove his point. Derek dropped his forehead to Stiles’ shoulder, breathed deep and unsteady at the feeling of Stiles hand, wide palm and long, wicked fingers, jerking him off fast and brutal. Derek groaned, pressed his fingers into Stiles’ biceps hard enough to bruise, forgetting himself. Stiles kissed him, slowed his pace, whispered, “C’mon, beautiful, give me some room to work in here.”

Derek braced his hands on the shower wall, slid his feet back to make room, and said, “I want you to blow me.”

Stiles’ breath caught, trapped at the base of his throat, and his cock gave another desperate twitch. He licked his lips, said, “yeah, babe, anything," and fell to his knees. He lost himself for a moment, in the smell of Derek’s cock, thick and hard and beautiful, the feel of it against his face, his cheek. He slid his lips along it, licked across the crown, felt the weight and heat and texture across his tongue, across his slackened lips, filled his mouth with Derek, made his noises loud and messy, sloppy and obscene, and heard Derek groan above him. Stiles loved it, loved the feel of Derek’s cock in his mouth and the taste and the smell, and the way Derek trembled beneath his palms and reacted to the slightest flick of Stiles’ tongue. Thought about how this had always made Derek the loudest, before tonight, and thought about what Derek might do, how he might sound, to have his cock sucked and his ass fingered at the same time, and groaned, long and desperate at the thought of it. 

Water sluiced down the muscles of Derek’s back, and Stiles slid his hands from Derek’s hips to his ass, the sleek curve of them made slicker with the hot water. He bobbed his head, slurping, and squeezed Derek’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart so the hot water came down, hit his hole with sensation. “Ungh,” Derek moaned. His hands slid down the wall an inch, thighs tense. 

Stiles eased back, worked his jaw for a moment. “I got you,” he said, “I got you, baby.” He slurped at the head, flicked his tongue back and forth there while he slid his fingers around Derek’s rim, tracing it, catching on the edge so that Derek jumped, jolted with pleasure, started gasping little vowel sounds as Stiles licked and pressed, and wriggled his thumb inside. 

Derek snarled, ferocious, and Stiles looked up with a wicked tilt to his mouth to see Derek’s eyes ember-red, wolf-bright, and it made his grin curl in vicious satisfaction, as he pressed his thumb deep into Derek’s ass, dragging against the tight walls that clutched his thumb, greedy, wanting more. He put his mouth back to use, wrapped his lips around Derek’s cock, sucking and slurping, and pushed his thumb against the soft inner heat of Derek’s ass, pushed so that it stretched Derek’s hole open, just to make him feel empty, to make him feel opened and used, and Derek whimpered and fell to his knees, slipping out of Stiles mouth and grip even as Stiles tried to catch him without hurting either of them, his come pulsing onto Stiles shoulder, dripping down the length of Derek’s cock in agonized pulses. 

“Whoa, whoa,” Stiles whispered, “I got you, I got you.” He gathered Derek close on the floor of the shower with the water beating down on them, tried to pull his thumb out of Derek, but Derek clenched down tight with a strangled “Wait. Not yet.”

“Okay,” Stiles soothed. Pressing a kiss to Derek’s temple while the water washed the jizz from his shoulder, trying to calm his heart, to breathe through the arousal he felt. He pressed his thumb in deep, working it in gentle circles so Derek could feel it, thought briefly about anal plugs, and winced as his cock gave one more painful twitch. 

His murmur was almost lost in the water, in the way Derek had his face tucked beneath Stiles’ chin, but Stiles caught it, caught the words and the way Derek flexed luxuriant and greedy around Stiles’ thumb. “You can fuck me. It’s okay, you can fuck me.”

Stiles kissed him, slid his thumb in an agonizingly dirty slide out and away, smiled at Derek’s little sigh of loss, and hugged him, needing the contact, always wanting Derek’s warmth, his embrace. “Awesome,” Stiles said. “But it’ll have to wait until the morning.”

Derek laughed, helpless and happy.

*

They finished the night in a series of quiet, domestic moments. Finishing the shower with casual, tender touches here and there, not to arouse, but simply for the pleasure of touching each other, of being touched, of being welcomed to touch. They dried off and put on boxers, a t-shirt for Stiles that smelled like Derek, bumped against each other as they brushed their teeth, a little bubble of joy around them, because, really, the sex had been good before that night, but the sex tonight had been great, and the after glow was still glowing, and they were in love though neither had said so in words, not yet. 

Stiles checking facebook on his phone as he slid into Derek’s bed, Derek prowling the apartment one last time to check all the locks, his phone for texts from the pack. “Erica wants barbeque for dinner tomorrow,” he told Stiles, shutting off the lamp and pulling the covers up. 

Stiles plumped his pillow, relaxed into it with a content sigh. “What Erica wants,” he said in amusement, “Erica gets. Let’s go to Joe’s.”

“Joe’s is a shack on the edge of town that looks like it will fall over at any moment and only has a B inspection rating, Stiles.”

“It’s delicious,” Stiles insisted. “And you’re all werewolves, you can’t get food poisoning, and I am making an informed risk, so shut it.”

In the dark, in the quiet, in the pleasant glow of exhaustion, their hands found each other, tangled tight, loosened, held until they fell asleep, listening to the sound of the other breathing.

*

It was lazy, the first time Stiles fucked Derek, completely and without reservation, in the soft haze of morning light. He had class later, biology with Scott, and he was meeting his father for a late lunch afterward, and then they would go to Joe’s so Erica could have her barbeque, and maybe after that Stiles would come back to Derek’s apartment, but maybe he would go home and watch a game or bad reality television with his dad and go to bed in his own bed in his own room in his own house. But that was all later, and this was now: Derek beneath him, strong and warm, tight embrace, and slick mouths, tongues and teeth, and a lazy grind while Stiles’ fumbled off the side of the bed for the night stand, and the lube still sitting there. 

“You sure?” Stiles asked, as Derek brushed feather light kisses down Stiles’ neck, swept his fingers through Stiles’ unkempt hair, tender and possessive. 

“I’m sure,” Derek murmured, spreading his thighs and tipping Stiles in between them. Stiles groaned, and Derek’s eyelids fluttered, arching his hips and bending his knees to open himself wider for Stiles’, proving with action as well as words how much he wanted. Stiles slicked his fingers, almost fumbling the bottle of lube; Derek plucked it neatly out of his fingers, set it on the night stand without looking. Derek smirked at Stiles with dark eyes glimmering and his face softened, blurred with morning light and drowsy pleasure and just- Stiles’ heart ached.

Stiles pressed his fingers to Derek, traced one fingertip around Derek’s puckered rim, before sliding it in, smooth and easy and hot and tight. Derek stuttered a breath, reaching his arms up above him in a long curve of muscles and soft skin, powerful and trusting, and Stiles gripped underneath one of Derek’s knees, just to have something to hold onto. “Condom?” he asked.

“No,” Derek said. “No, not this time.” He groaned, shifting into Stiles’ finger, mouth slack with pleasure. Stiles added another finger, like a question, and Derek said, voice getting rougher, “I want to feel you come inside me this time.”

Stiles thought about that, of coming inside of Derek and coating him with come, filling him up with it, pulsing deep inside of him and pulling out to watch it drip out of Derek’s slackened hole, his jizz smeared across Derek’s thighs and spilling out, and, “ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles said, spreading two fingers and adding a third to make Derek cry out, too. To reward Derek for that visual, _Jesus_. Werewolves and their inability to catch and therefore give diseases meant safe sex every time, whether they used protection or not, a matter Stiles had researched thoroughly before believing and letting Derek try it, just once, before Stiles had bitched and moaned about how messy it was how long it took before he’d stopped leaking, and they’d used condoms since then: easier clean up. But Derek, Derek knew that part of it and he wanted the mess, wanted the slide of Stiles’ jizz inside his body, sliding down his thighs, and Stiles wanted to give him that, wanted to fill him up even after he pulled out. 

Derek hissed a breath, muscles flexing, digging in his heels. His body moved, graceful and sharp, fucking onto Stiles’ fingers, sliding along his prostate over and over until he was trembling, shaking apart, and Stiles stroked Derek’s cock once and twice more and finger fucked him through orgasm. 

Derek threw his arm over his face, panted, and growled, “It’s not enough, Stiles. I need- I _need_ -”

“Got you,” Stiles said, grabbing the lube and slicking his dick. Derek was still wracked with tremors, cock still mostly hard, when Stiles pressed the head of his erection against Derek’s ass, slid it against his hole, brushed the head up against the back of Derek’s balls. Derek’s eyes hot flashes of green ringed with red, and then Stiles lined himself up and pushed, head of his cock against Derek, that tight little puckered hole swallowing him down with hungry heat, and Derek’s eyes caught fire, and he howled, spine bowing and knees locking around Stiles’ and Stiles thought he was going to die, the feeling of tight slick heat around him, the pulse and pleasure and need, Derek scrabbling at the head board, hitching breaths like little sobs as he squirmed there, pinned against Stiles’ hips.

“Fuck me,” he pleaded, falling apart, eyes wet and wide and dark, all pupil with a thin line of red, needing it so much now that he had it, had Stiles’ dick inside of him, filling him up and stretching his walls, his hole. Stiles breathed, fingers digging into Derek’s knee, his other hand landing heavy against the bed, knees slipping to find position, and then, finally, _finally_ , he moved inside of Derek, pulled out, pushed in, stretched him again and again and watched every thrust, the way his erection disappeared into Derek’s ass.

It didn’t last long, it couldn’t - it was like they were both virgins all over again, but of course Stiles was newest, even then, and he cried out, wild, came inside of Derek, filled him up with come and slammed into him again and again until he was done, Derek crying out with each hard thrust. He had found his prostate in the end, by luck and not by finesse, but found it all the same, and Derek was on edge already, trembling there and ready to fall, mouth shocked wide from being fucked, from loving it, from wanting more. Stiles slid out, slow, and Derek groaned, the muscles in his belly fluttering with sensation, his erection leaking, and Stiles watched as the head of his softening erection popped free, and there was a smear of his come there, glistening against Derek’s hole, and: “God, Derek. You’re beautiful, my come all inside you, it’s already leaking, so messy, _fuck_ ,” and he reached down and rubbed his thumb against Derek’s tender rim, smearing his come against it, and Derek keened, hips snapping as he came.

Stiles forgot to breathe, watching him, and when Derek calmed down, and opened his eyes, glazed and startled and wondering, Stiles said, “I had no idea you were so kinky, Derek. I mean, _damn_.”

Derek groaned, in dismay this time instead of pleasure. “Shut up, Stiles. Don’t _ruin_ it, if you talk you’re going to ruin it, so no.” There was a hint of a smile around his mouth, even while he cocked an eyebrow in judgement at Stiles, and Stiles smiled at him, pressed a tender kiss to Derek’s knee, and left to get some tissues to clean up with. He came back to find Derek pressing curious fingers against his ass, slipping in the lube and semen, pressing his fingertips into his opening and finding the slick there; his teeth were pressed against his bottom lip, face flushed and hot. 

“No,” Stiles said sternly. “No, I do not have another round in me, not until breakfast at least, so save your incredibly hot exploration for later because I will die if you keep doing that oh, oh fucking god.”

Derek growled in amusement, gaze sharp and lazy as he dipped two fingers into himself, thrust indulgently so that Stiles could hear the slick squelch and slurp of it. “Oh, fuck me,” Stiles breathed, grinning madly, unsure how he managed to be so lucky. Derek drawled, “On occasion, sure,” and slipped his fingers free, swung his feet around and sat up, wincing and pleased. He stopped by Stiles on his way out the door, kissed his cheek, rubbed against his jaw a moment, and said, “I’ll make bacon, you make eggs, and that’d better be enough protein for you to get it up again. This time I want to come with you still fucking me. Think you can manage it, _baby_.”

“Count on it,” Stiles said, strangled, and rushed to follow.

*

Naked breakfast led to half a plate of eggs on the floor and the first occurrence of leftover bacon, ever, and Derek spread across Stiles’ lap in the chair, lifting himself up in little distances and dropping back down until Stiles was whimpering and clutching at his thighs and pushing him up, higher, higher, and dragging him down, until Derek rode him hard and fast and came with Stiles’ tongue in his mouth, the taste of bacon, Stiles fucking him through the aftershocks before slowing, holding Derek in place above him and fucking up into him in lazy, slow strokes until he cried out, muffling it with a bite to Derek’s shoulder and coming, grinding into Derek’s ass with slow, desperate circles of his hips, and Derek murmuring nasty, encouraging words in his ear.

Derek was adamant they clean the food up before showering, even if it mean Stiles’ was late for class. “Flies, Stiles,” Derek said, dangerously, and Stiles snickered, and picked up bacon, and sung out, “Yes, dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me you liked it. If you tell me you liked it I might write the last part of that original prompt. Maybe. MAYBE. The only reason I wrote words on a document for this tonight instead of just fantasizing about it is because I reread the comments asking for more sex, and telling me they loved debauched Derek, and felt encouraged! Entitle me, comrades. Do it. I appreciate each and every one of you even though I am too much of an asshole to respond to comments, I swear!


End file.
